


The Magnus Records 001 - Fisherman

by ErinsWorks



Series: The Magnus Records [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast), The Magnus Records
Genre: AU: The entities are nice and the world is awful., Alternate Universe, Gen, The Magnus Records - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 12:31:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20724257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinsWorks/pseuds/ErinsWorks
Summary: In another world filled with cruelty and tragedy and terror, perhaps Jon and his coworkers could earn happier endings. Perhaps the entities that formed would be benign rather than malignant. Perhaps instead of monsters and nightmares, there would only be angels and dreams.Here at the Magnus Sanctuary, London, we will find out.Start your interview. Share your hope.





	The Magnus Records 001 - Fisherman

**MAG001**– Resident 2404 – “Fisherman”****

**KEEPER **

Test... Test... Test... 1, 2, 3... Right. 

_ <<Cough>> _

My name is Jonathan Sims. I work for the Magnus Sanctuary, London, an organisation dedicated to the charitable shelter of the impoverished and unstable. The head of the Sanctuary, Mr Elias Bouchard, has employed me to replace the previous Record Keeper, one Gertrude Robinson, who has recently gone into retirement. 

I have been working as an Inspector at the Sanctuary for four years now- Keeping everything safe and up to code- and I am familiar with most of the usual visitors. Most become rehabilitated quickly, with some manner of psychiatric or financial assistance, but the real problem cases- and I must emphasize, there are more than you would expect- seem to siphon off of this place like a parasite, with no real intention of getting better. Some even have the gaul to join our employee base as _ “volunteer workers”, _but I am certain they are simply using that ostentatious title to justify their continued presence to themselves. 

_ <<Long pause>> _

That said, when a resident is finally sent on their way, the information they have willingly shared with us is added to the record. Now, the Sanctuary has been in place since 1818, which means that the Record contains around 200 years of medical or financial information and recorded interviews. Combine that with the fact that most of the Sanctuary’s workers join to assist in the glamorous work of caretaking for the poor unfortunate residents- rather than the complicated task of keeping the papers that get those residents’ lives in order- and you have the recipe for an impeccably perfect cafeteria and housing area… and an absolute mess of a records room. This isn’t necessarily a problem- modern filing and indexing systems are a real wonder, and all it would take is a half-decent Record Keeper to keep everything orderly.

Gertrude Robinson was far more than a half-decent Record Keeper.

From where I am sitting, I can see several dozen organized filing cabinets, each labeled alphabetically, and by date, and by type. More than that, it appears that Gertrude has brought in a laptop, which in turn appears to have a completed sorting system of each residents’ files. But here inlies the problem: while the medical records are clearly on display- each one easily accessible- the therapy records and interviews… are _ not. _

Everything regarding the residents’ personal experiences and affairs has been sealed away behind combination locks. I and my assistants have tried everything we can to open these cabinets by force, with no luck. It seemed that, likely due to some flight of insanity, my predecessor saw fit that the only way to access the personal files of any given resident should be to _ seriously damage them via explosives. _

Or at least, that was how it seemed at first. On my second day working this “job” as a record keeper of inaccessible records, my assistant Tim discovered something on the floor in the corner. A note which, in neat handwriting, contained the phrase _ “Records A5-A6, Lock Combination: 03-09-26”. _ On the opposite side, in far _ less _ neat handwriting was a message. _ “Keep them secret Jon. Keep them safe. - Gertrude.” _

What I can only presume to be a miswritten reference to the _ Lord of the Rings _ films aside, it appears that Miss Gertrude Robinson decided to dedicate her last months as an employee of the Sanctuary to making my _ own _ employment a living nightmare. I do not have the _ patience _ to play _ hide-and-go-seek _ with _ slips of paper _ in a _ records room whose records I cannot access. _ But. It appears that if I wish to _ keep _ my position… I have to play along with her ridiculous game.

I'm not making it easy for myself. My assistants- or, my _ confidants _ rather, as Elias _ insists on calling them _ \- simply cannot be trusted for anything more complex than helping me wrench open a filing cabinet. Tim clearly doesn't trust me to have his best interests at heart, Martin has obvious contempt for me given his bouts of complete silence whenever I enter the room, and Sasha… Sasha… _ unnerves _ me, to say the least. I am to complete this work _ alone, _and frankly, that may well be for the best.

I have decided to begin recording the interviews digitally, as there seems to be no _ digital _transcription of many of the files. Furthermore, a recording of these interviews may prove useful to the Sanctuary at some point. Perhaps as a…

_ <<Laughs>> _

Perhaps as a voice-over for a sappy promotional video. Although, I don’t know why anyone would want to listen to _my_ voice for hours on end. Regardless, I will be beginning… _Now_.

Interview with Nathan Watts, regarding a dissociative episode at Old Fishmarket Close, Edinburgh. Original interview taken April 22nd, 2012. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Record Keeper.

Interview begins.

**KEEPER (INTERVIEW)**

****This all happened years before I started getting proper therapy here, with you all. My life before the Sanctuary was… Difficult. It was nothing extreme, not really, there are people with far worse lives than my own, but.

I was dealing with some serious mental health issues. I had some really bad dissociation, to the point where I would literally forget what _ hands _ were for a couple of seconds. On top of that, I’m studying at the University Of Edinburgh, and dropping out of reality for a couple of seconds _ really _isn’t helpful for exams. I was in my second year, and life was really stressful, and to cope with that stress I turned to my friend Michael. Michael MacAulay. Really bright guy, really nice. Those people are hard to come by these days.

That’s why it hurt so much when he died.

It was all so sudden. He got hit by a car or something, I didn’t really look into it, but when I heard the news it really _ broke _ me for a while. My grades suffered, my dissociation got worse, my whole concept of what _ was _ and _ wasn’t _familiar to me just… got all twisted up in my grief. So of course, to numb the pain, I did what any Edinburgh student worth their while would do. I got ridiculously drunk at the local pub. I have vague memories of sobbing Mike’s name, the bartender insisting I’d had too much, the usual faded recollections of someone in my state.

Long story short, I was violently ill around midnight, and I decided that the best thing to do in my incredibly deluded and intoxicated condition, was to take a long walk in no particular direction. So I did just that, and shortly after, I ended up walking straight through Old Fishmarket Close.

Now, I had been walking with my eyes closed for some reason, and this is where this story goes from _ believable _ to _ “Nathan had a bad hallucination” _ but I _ swear, _ what happened next feels more _ real _than anything. It seems bizarre whenever I retell the story, I know that, but this is the most crisp memory I have in my head. It all seems so familiar.

Because I opened my eyes and… Well it wasn’t nighttime anymore. It was a busy day at the market. And here’s the thing, it couldn't have just been that I’d somehow blacked out for a whole night, because there _ isn’t actually a fish market on Old Fishmarket Close. It’s just the name of the street. _ But here I am, sitting on the side of the street, as people in maritime clothing walk around like nothing’s happened, _ buying fish. _ But before I know it, there’s a hand right in front of my face, as some random man is offering to help me up. I take it, get up, and standing in front of me is the _ nicest looking man in the world. _

Now, I don’t mean that he looked attractive, not at all. Not in my book anyway. He was an old man, I’d say around 60 or so, with a grizzled white beard and a cute little fishing hat. When I say he looked _ nice _ I mean that he looked… _ kind. _ And more than that, he looked _ familiar. _ You looked at him and you got the warm feeling you get from looking at old yearbook pictures of your best friends. You looked at him and you felt welcome. You looked at him and you felt… _ grounded. _

That’s when he reached into his pocket and fished out a roll-up. Then he said, in the warmest, friendliest voice I can imagine: _ “Care for a cigarette?” _

I stared at his hand like I wasn’t sure what he was asking. He was a stranger, I told myself, and strangers don’t just _ offer you cigarettes. _

So he said it again. _ “Care for a cigarette?” _

I took the cigarette. It was a Marlboro Red.

We sat there on the street corner, smoking for a while, without saying anything. And that was okay. We didn’t need to say anything. Because I felt like I knew everything about this kind old man. More than that, I felt like he knew everything about _ me. _ And honestly… I was alright with that. I didn’t feel ashamed to know he knew me, and I felt proud that, even though he did, he was still willing to offer me a cigarette. Again, I know this sounds like some kind of insane hallucination, but I _ swear _ I just _ knew _ all of this.

He turned to me, and I knew he was going to say something. _ “Nathan,” _ He said in this rough, cartoony, maritime accent, and I somehow didn’t find it odd that he knew my name. _ “You’re going to be okay, alright? The world’s tough, and it’s hard to get your head around sometimes, but take it from an ol’ fisherman. You’re going to be okay.” _And I knew he was right. I knew it.

The rest was a blur, but… I woke up at home. I woke up, and everything was fine. Mike was gone, but I had a hold of that concept now. I had a hold of a lot of concepts I hadn’t before. But more than anything, I knew what the fisherman said… was right. I was going to be okay.

_ <<Long Pause>> _

Now a couple of months back, I was looking through some old childhood photos- I’m not just going on a tangent, I swear this is relevant- and I found something that should’ve scared the shit out of me, but it didn’t. It was a picture my mother had taken of me when I was around eight years old, wandering around at a marketplace. Standing next to me was a man. He was bending over to talk to me, and although his mouth and grizzled white beard were in frame, the rest of his face wasn’t. But you could tell he was smiling. I was smiling too.

I knew it was him. And more than that… I knew the Marlboro Red Cigarettes poking out of his pocket.

I’ve learned how to manage my dissociation better. I’ve finished my degree, I’ve put this all behind me, really. But I thought I’d tell you, Gertrude. Because… Well… It felt like he’d helped. It felt like, no matter how I was doing… I was going to be okay.

Thanks for listening, despite how crazy it sounds.

**KEEPER**

Interview ends.

I wasn’t aware that Gertrude worked a double-shift as record-keeper _ and _ therapist, but that seems… Right. My newly discovered contempt for the woman aside, she always seemed like a good listener to me.

But. Clearly she wasn’t an adequate _ psychiatrist, _ as I only see “Prone to dissociative episodes” on Nathan’s medical sheet and no mention of the fact that he is _ “Prone to sheer delusional hallucination”. _ The fact that Gertrude would give this interview any thought without putting it down as some kind of warning sign for an underlying mental illness is _ absurd. _

His file says he officially cancelled his sessions with the Sanctuary around a year ago. It seems that he was no longer pursuing his degree. In fact it appears that he's gone and started a small business… Selling fish.

Hang on a moment…

B6-B7… 04… 32… 15.

… It seems Gertrude made this easier for me than I first suspected. That’s another lock combination.

End recording.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for giving this a read. This is going to be the first part of a looong series of wish-fulfillment fic where I write Jonmartin, Sasha being cool, and Tim being alive. And also Benign Entities, which I'll be getting into the names and attributes of over a very very very long time. If you have a favorite episode of TMA Season 1 which you'd like to see be TMR-ized, please leave it in the comments below! I'll get to them as soon as time allows.
> 
> P.S. The Entities in this world may be benign, but the world itself really fuckin sucks. Every nation is either an authoritarian police state or a lawless wasteland, everywhere is awful and everyone is an asshole. War and murder abounds. It's basically like if every ritual succeeded, just a little.
> 
> P.P.S. If you're a Jon sound-alike, feel absolutely free to make a podfic!!! I would sooner die than stop you.


End file.
